


adOración

by JemDoe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fever Dreams, Gen, Hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JemDoe/pseuds/JemDoe
Summary: Allen knew he was coming down with a fever, and as such, he made all the necessary preparations for it.





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Allen knew he was coming down with a fever, and as such, he made all the necessary preparations for it.

He may be immortal, but by all the gods he believed and didn’t believe, he still got sick on occasion. A strong, hallucination-inducing cold, sure, because these kinds of cold were the only kind his weird body didn’t absolutely kill. After so many hundred years, he refused to question how he worked.

However, he knew  _ what  _ worked - a gallon of water, fresh linens available and easy to reach, a bucket for puking his guts out at some point, biohazard trash bags. But, now that Morgen had a key to his flat, she was at risk of getting it, and only the Lord knew what would happen if a normal human being caught his cold.

As such, Allen left a note to Morgen and locked himself in his room, fever washing over him like a heatwave as he laid down in his bed.

Allen sighed, closing his eyes, and letting sleep claim him, staring at the ceiling as shadows danced in the corner of his eyes. It almost seemed like a battle, he noticed, somewhat amused, silver eyes closing themselves.

[in his dreams

he was back at the siege

the soft clip-clop of hooves muddled by the rain and the soldier songs

himself, meanwhile: a poor, tired soldier, hungry and exhausted and wet. jeanne by his side whoever

jeanne glowed softly; her hair a sloppy halo around her head, wet and black like his

her eyes - dark and soft, like her smile, even though the rain punished all of them

there was a fire burning inside of her, lighting their path through france

he knew right there right then he might give away his life for jeanne

he had led a long, long life; why not give it to this girl

who just wanted france to be freed? wouldn’t it be worth dying for? gods, god

and then, during the battle

he was back to back with jeanne; just her and her sword and him and his sword

slash and hack and kill and maim and  _ duck jeanne  _ and her grin of thanks face splattered with blood (whose) before diving back into the fray slash hack  _ shield allen  _ the sound of steel against steel  _ behind you  _ ribs cracking and  _ splat  _ there went that englishman’s brain a horse gave its death throes and  _ fuck it was his the duke was going to kill him  _ and jeanne laughed like a madwoman as the voices spoke to her melodious and fluent and  _ you’ll free this country jeanne in gods name you will _

when the battle was over

jeanne had won

but not without cost; a wound (superficial) marred her face 

allen allowed himself to touch her face (wet skin flushed with the high of the battle)

cleaning the blood away with his thumb

a pious smile playing on jeanne’s lips as she said  _ thank you _

and the glint of a sword in the nebulous sunlight is the only reason he sees the attack

he throws jeanne out of the way - and gets the wound she should get.

jeanne is mortal. allen is not. it is better for him to fall in battle - blood pooling in his mouth - than it is to jeanne, for she must lead france to salvation, to rise and fight and kill in the name of the holy saints she has on her ears.

allen wanted her to be adored - she was, she was already -, a saint in living flesh and bone. she was already, her words on the dauphin’s ear and her sword in flames guiding france away from the english. adoration was all that people felt for her, their symbol, their light. he’d prostate at her feet and pray to a god he didn’t believe in if she as much indicated this was something she’d like.

he had thought dying for her would be worth it. allen had never thought it would come so soon.

when the pain hits his abdomen, allen - ]

He woke up with a ragged breath, sitting up, room spinning around him, taking huge gulps of air as he touched the place where not even a scar stood, sweating like he had just been dropped from that battle to the present. In a way, he had.

His stomach was churning, Allen’s pale eyes reviving every goddamn second of the aftermath, and he puked into the bucket as the smell of burnt flesh hit his nose. There was no flesh being burned, of course, but memories were powerful things. His skin felt cold and clammy, but soft hands threaded through his hair as he let go of his dinner.

“It’s alright, you’re going to be okay,”, said Jeanne’s melodious voice, and if Allen hadn’t been to busy, you know, puking, he’d have hugged her, so many whispered  _ forgive me forgive me forgive me  _ the words would have lost meaning. How long had he longed to beg her forgiveness for not being enough? Too long.

When his dinner finished its revolt, a towel was offered to him, Jeanne helping him rise up and take him to the bathroom. Her hands still felt the same way as he remembered, callused and strong. Tears stung his eyes.

Logically, he knew it couldn’t be Jeanne. 

Emotionally, Allen couldn’t muster enough will to care that this hallucination helping him wasn’t his Jeanne. If he saw Jeanne, heard Jeanne, and felt Jeanne - it was enough. As Voltaire had said,  _ cogito ergo sum.  _

It wasn’t quite the same context Voltaire had meant, but still. His point stood.

Jeanne kept a steady hand on him as Allen brushed his teeth, as he splashed some water on his face, and when he looked up in the mirror, tears welled up in his eyes once more.

There was Jeanne, dressed up in her masculine clothes, hair short and forlorn, skin warm and brown, smile bright and vivacious, the same small scar on her face.

Gods, god. Allen threw himself at her feet, hugging her and speaking in -  _ french? English? His long-forgotten mother language? -,  _ asking for forgiveness, for not trying harder to save her, for being unable to save her.

Jeanne, blessed be her immortal soul, waited until his words became but a murmur against her, and detached herself from Allen, lowering herself to her knees, eye to eye with him, black against silver.

“My friend, my dearest friend,”, she started, her voice a melody. Gods, god. “I was not afraid, for I knew that it was fated. I was born to die there, do not wreck yourself with guilt over this.”

“Jeanne, how? I had the chance, the english trusted me, I could have…”, he started, and she shushed him, forcing Allen to his feet.

“Allen, sweet Allen,”, Jeanne smiled, eyes filled with its usual strength, and he felt so weak. The fever didn’t help. “Do not wreck yourself with guilt for things long gone. I am dead just as you are alive, and that’s how things would have gone either way. You would have survived being burnt, and I would have died of whatever was thrown at me.”

She slowly guided him back to bed, frowning when she touched the wet sheets - the smell of sickness and sweat brought him back to the infirmary of any war he had been -, and sighing. Allen blushed when she looked at him.

“Leave this to me.”, she grinned, vivacious and bright, and forced him to sit down with a blanket around his shoulders, watching as she worked, tired and warm, eyes struggling to stay open and watch Jeanne.

[in his dreams

jeanne on the court was restless

the dauphin had ordered the armies to withdraw

and with the armies jeanne

jeanne waiting for winter to pass

dressed in fine fabrics that did not suit her

hair growing longer and thicker

her sword still in her reach

and allen by her side accompanying her (jeanne had insisted)

jeanne seemed so frustrated with:

  * the dauphin
  * the count
  * the duke
  * the fact that time seemed to be frozen still inside the castle’s hallways
  * the fact france was not free yet



but the dauphin seemed uninterested in jeanne now that he was king

(which was what infuriated allen, while jeanne seemed to care not)

allen took to practicing swordsmanship with jeanne to pass time

and that seemed to make jeanne happy for a while

before her grin turned sour

before a frown marred her face;

because theory without practice was nothing

and dueling in the training grounds did not liberate france

this was why the people adored her (like allen adored her)

her focus, single handedly, was in saving france

not in becoming a lady of the court

not in becoming the queen of france

not in seeing what she had done for the country and being satisfied with it

no;

jeanne’s goal was a free france

and she refused to quit before she saw it come true

it was why the maids and cooks and little girls and squires and the smiths and the tailors all fell over themselves to help her; a torn piece of fabric with her symbol stitched on it and a sharpened sword and lance and bread and cheese and little flower crowns to put on her head and  _ bless me please my lady jeanne of arc _

jeanne was a bit uncomfortable with people seeing her as a saint in bone and flesh

but she was bound to the will of the people

(and the people wanted a free france)

and so she gave them what they wanted]

“Wake up, sleepyhead,”, Jeanne hummed, and Allen peeled up his eyes groggily, just now noticing he had fallen asleep. In front of him, Jeanne, dressed in casual clothes - a baggy red and black flannel, jeans, a loose black shirt splattered with white paint -, a pot of warm soup sitting in her lap. “You’ve got a bad stomach, so I made sure you had something easy to eat.”

It smelled like a boiled bouillon cube, but it was, probably, the best idea in the world to soothe his stomach. He made a motion for the spoon, and she tutted him, nurse-like.

“No, no. You’re too weak. Let me do something for you.”, she said, starting to feed him spoonfuls of the boiled stock cube - which, honestly, tasted great, even though it was just that.

It reminded him a little of the terrible rations they gave out, of all the shitty taverns he and Jeanne had been to during the war. The soup was tasteless and watery, but gods, god, it was the best thing he had ever eaten, currently.

When he finished, Jeanne rose up, and as he stared at her, feeling groggy and full, Allen couldn’t help but wonder if she had picked things from Morgen’s drawer to dress herself up with. It seemed like Morgen’s clothes, at least, and he wondered where the redhead was. Hopefully, in her own home. Allen wanted her to stay safe.

[in his dreams,

allen and jeanne.

but this time what was between them was not air

but thick iron bars.

behind him, the long, dark and humid corridor that led to the entrance

and allen knew that in the door there would be his drinking pal james

james had agreed to free jeanne as long as allen stayed behind and burnt

and as he told her this in soft whispers, he watched jeanne get irritated.

_no_ , she said, in a angry whisper.  _ no, my friend. _

_ jeanne please, _

_ no! no no no! i must do this. to die -  _

_ jeanne please  _

_ to die for a free nation is my wish _

_ jeanne just listen _

_ i will not be convinced. this is my fate. _

and she was as never as holy as she had been then, hair a mess and bags under her eyes, furious and righteous and holy, unmoved, unbent, unbroken.

_ jeanne _

_ allen. _

and that was it. she wanted martyrdom, allen realized, she wanted to die for a nation that left her for dead. nothing he could ever say could convince her, but -

_ please _

_ leave.] _

When Allen woke up, he felt… Surprisingly well, actually. Maybe Jeanne had come to him and cured him of his sickness, a holy warrior turned healer.

He rose up from the bed, taking the sheets out and putting it in the biohazard bag with his clothes, throwing it in a corner to burn it later, humming an old war song to himself.

* * *

Morgen was eating his cereal when he went to the kitchen eat that specific cereal, and he stared at her. Good God, not even after he was sick he could eat his own damn cereal.

“That’s mine.”, he said, going to the kettle instead. He probably could do with some warm milk tea, and whatever remained of the cereal. If Morgen had left any behind, that is.

“Consider it payment for taking care of you, then,”, Morgen grumbled, feeding herself another spoonful of - was she using the  _ good  _ chocolate milk? Gods be damned. 

Allen frowned, though.

“Taking care of me?”, he asked, cautious. He knew it couldn’t be Jeanne, but Allen had figured he had just… Blacked out. Pretended it was Jeanne. Had acted on his own while hallucinating. It had happened before.

Morgen snorted, using her spoon to point at him. Allen stared at her, his silver eyes against her familiar black ones. The same hard black eyes as Jeanne.

“Yeah, dumbass. You kept speaking french and I kept telling you I didn’t know french but that only made you french  _ harder _ .”, she snorted once more, elbows on the table, arms an arch over the cereal bowl. “By the way, who’s Jeanne? You kept calling for her. Like, a lot.”

Morgen seemed uncomfortable, eyes averting, and - 

Allen had thought Morgen was Jeanne. That was why she was acting like that. That was why Jeanne had been dressed in Morgen’s clothes. He had cried against her legs. He had begged for her forgiveness. And when she tried to tell him she wasn’t Jeanne, he hadn’t been in his right mind to understand her.

“She was a saint.”, he replied, because it was the truth. Morgen stared at him, shrugging. Allen offered her a small smile.


End file.
